


Everything I Think I Need

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU - Season 1, Hurt!Sam, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> It’s their lives, with piano in the background.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything I Think I Need

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Sara Bareilles, “Gravity”. Song list at the end of the story.

**Title:** Everything I Think I Need  
 **Author:** ‘Drea/placeofinsanity  
 **Rating:**  
NC-17 **Pairing:** Sam/Dean, past Sam/Jess  
 **Disclaimer:** All belongs to Kripke/Gamble - I own nothing more than too much music and too much time on my hands.  
 **Summary:** _It’s their lives, with piano in the background._

 **MAJOR AU - set AU!Season 1 where John never goes missing, and the YED tries to kill Jess anyway, but Brady screws up, pinning Sam to the ceiling instead.**

 **Notes:** Title taken from Sara Bareilles, “Gravity”. Song list at the end of the story.

 **Kinks:** singing, first times, slow build, boys-that-share-topping, rimming, wittiness  
 **Warnings:** Snark, incest, and over use of song lyrics. Also, OCs.

 

*

 _I live here on my knees as I try_

  
_  
and make you see that you’re   
_   


_  
_

_  
everything I think I need   
_

_  


  
here on the ground   


  


  
\- Sara Bareilles, “Gravity”   


  
_

 

*

 

“Hey Deanie! Shut your yap and finish flipping those god damn pancakes!” Sandra shouts through the hole in the wall, leaning dangerously far over the edge. Dean flips her off before turning up the radio, and turning back to the griddle. “You’re going to be the death of me,” she informs him blithely, sliding back to her customers.

 

“Sandra, those flaming death sticks that you insist on sucking on every twenty minutes or so will be the death of you, not my singing,” he shoots back, flipping pancakes pointedly. “And all our orders have been filled, so these must be your dinner.” He sticks his tongue out at her. “So can it, and go make people happy.”

 

She pulls a face and moves around the counter to refill coffees. “Deanie giving you trouble again?” asks Jackson, a regular at the Diner, holding his mug for her.

 

Laughing she shakes her head. “We just like to shoot the shit together, Jacks. This late at night, there’s nothing better to do.”

 

Jackson looks up at the clock, eyeing it with some confusion. “It’s nine,” he says.

 

“And I’m up every morning for five,” she adds. “You all set or do you want dessert?”

 

With Sandra busy at the tables, Dean serves her pancakes up with bacon, just the way she likes it, half chewy and half crispy with a vanilla milkshake for her smile. “Hey Sandra D!” he calls over. “Foods up.”

 

She spares a grin at Jackson before hurrying over to the bar for her own break and dinner. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she complains half-heartedly, her mouth already full of strawberry covered pancakes. “Its not like you have room to talk.”

 

Scoffing, Dean spreads his hands on the bar and leans forward. “What is that supposed to mean?” he demands, furrowing his brow over narrowed green eyes.

 

“Sandra D,” she says primly, “is a stereotypical prude. For the sake of argument we’ll ignore that I am not, in fact, a prude, so let’s focus on stereotypes.” Dean rolls his eyes and settles back against the coffee counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You, my dear cook, are the stereotypical gay man.”

 

Dean sputters. “I am not a stereotype and I am not gay!”

 

“You sing show tunes and have an eyebrow ring.”

 

“So?” A trifle self-consciously he rubs at the gold eyebrow ring. “These things do not mean I’m gay.”

 

Jackson slides up behind Sandra, holding his check and a few bucks. “I don’t know, Dean...you do get picked up every night from that really tall guy in the awesome car.”

 

Dean points at him. “Hey, that black beauty is mine! Now give me your check.” He takes the slip of paper and the bills before going over to the till. “This is not beat up on Dean day.”

 

“Isn’t everyday beat up on Dean day?” Sam’s familiar voice comes from the front door and Dean’s head jerks up. “I know I’m not supposed to encourage them,” Sam adds disparagingly. “...If they’re winning.”

 

“Hey dick-bag, you’re supposed to be on my side,” Dean says as Sam limps over to the counter to lean heavily on the stool next to it.

 

Four years in Northampton, Massachusetts and the injury still hasn’t healed. “I’m always on your side,” Sam protests. “When it suits me.”

 

Dean full on pouts, closing the till and handing back Jackson his change. “They’re making fun of my eyebrow ring,” he confides when Sam arranges his face to look appropriately contrite.

 

“It’s gold,” Sam says like it explained everything.

 

“And it clashes with nothing,” Dean protests.

 

Sandra and Jackson both holler with laughter and Dean suddenly blushes like a virgin and ducks without excuse into the kitchen where his things are. Cruz would be in for the night shift soon, and Dean wants to be ready to jet before things got even worse.

 

He closes the double doors on Sam’s very confused, “did I miss something?”

 

With them shut he can’t hear what Sandra’s response was, but he can only imagine the kind-hearted vitriol she’d be spewing. Cruz comes in the back as he’s cleaning up. “Hey dude,” he says to the other cook. “Be careful out there, the piranha’s are circling.”

 

“I think you mixed your metaphors man,” Cruz says with a light laugh. “But thanks for the warning. I saw that car of yours out there so go on, get.”

 

Dean got. Sam’s exactly where they’d left him, favoring his left leg, leaning hard on the hunters cane that Bobby had given him when he’d gotten out of the hospital after his first surgery. He’s smiling a little at something Sandra probably said, but it blooms into a real one - dimples and all when he sees Dean. “Come on,” he says warmly. “Let’s go.”

 

*

  
_Where has all the magic gone_   


  
__  
  
  
  


  


  
  
_  
Lost behind or lost along   
_   
  


  


 

  
_  
A victim of the pulse of our society   
_   


_  
_

_  
Don't you miss the ancient times   
_

_  


  
The riddles and the subtle signs   


  


  
A relative perspective on reality   


  


  
\- Kamelot, “The Spell”   


  
_

 

 _*_

  
It’s too quiet in the car. Sam shifts unhappily, his hip twinging in protest, as he studies Dean’s frowning face. “What are you thinking about?” he asks gently, one hand falling to massage his thigh.

 

“How we got here,” Dean answers in the same tone, flicking off his high beams as another car passes them.

 

“Northampton specifically?” Sam ventures, managing to turn in the seat to stare over at his brother.

 

Dean shakes his head. “No.” Sam waits and isn’t disappointed. “When Dad bailed on you.”

 

His mouth tightens, but Sam nods once. They both remember how hard it had been at first, Bobby the only true friend they could call on, both literally and figuratively for a year after Sam’s accident. There was no one else they could turn to. John had burned their bridges for them.

Sam breathes out a long sigh through his nose before attempting to speak. “Dean, I...”

 

“No, it’s okay,” he interrupts. “What do you want for dinner?”

 

Grateful for the subject change, Sam smiles. “Something quick is fine, you’ve been cooking all night.”

 

“So, lasagne then?” Dean retorts.

 

“Ooh, with garlic bread.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes as Sam grins.

 

*

  
_When your journey’s blocked by water_   


  
_  
And you pass without getting wet   
_   


_  
_

_  
You may ask yourself, “What’s the meaning of it all?”   
_

_  


  
A tiny, little shrug is all you get.   


  


  
\- Tub Ring, “Tiny, Little”   


  
_

 

*

 

Sam’s drunk. He’s usually more careful, what with the medicine he’s on for the pain. Sometimes though, when things inside his head are bad, he drinks just a little too much wine at dinner. He’s leaning on Dean and singing just too loud to be on tune. “Okay. Dude. What the hell are you singing?”

 

He shrugs one shoulder, leaning more heavily into Dean. “S’called Tiny, Little. I dunno, one of the students listens to it. I like it.”

“Sing it for me,” Dean requests.

 

Sam clears his throat, loudly. “Not s’good at singing, Dean.” He says it petulantly, but Dean prods him in the side. “Fiiine.” He tries to sit up, swaying on their broken in couch. “ _When the sun sets in the evening, and you still have mouths to feed, you may find yourself with a basket of bread, a tiny, little piece is all you need..._ ” He’s still slurring, but not as bad as he used to be, all those years in the car with Dean in the back seat, belting out some song he’d know Dean would hate.

 

Sammy still can’t hold a tune in a bucket. “ _When your journey’s blocked by water, and you pass without getting wet...you may ask yourself what’s the meaning of it all, a tiny, little shrug is all you get._ ”

 

Dean stops him, a hand on his mouth, lips still caught half open. “Dude,” he says fondly, “I got all the singing genes.”

Sam says something under Dean’s palm, it sounds like ‘fuck you’ but Dean can’t be sure. He’s maybe a little drunk too, and Sam’s lips against his hand is sending all sorts of fucked up messages to his cock.

 

Since Jess left them, left them both, Sandra is right. Neither of them has dated since. Sam at least, makes sense. Jess was his one true love, and when she gave up, when she couldn’t handle the ghosts and the death and the hunters that followed them wherever they went, Sam shut down. Things were better, now.

 

But Dean? Dean had probably been a little in love with his little brother since they were both in their teens. Not that Sam ever knew that. Not that Dean would ever tell him. It’s why he puts up with all of Sandra’s jokes, why he changed his last name to Bobby’s, and it’s why he’ll take care of Sam and his injury until they both die.

 

“Fine,” Sam says, as soon as Dean takes his hand away. “You sing then.”

 

Dean’s amused, mostly because growing up Sam was always telling him to shut up and stop singing. “What do you want to hear?”

 

“Nothing I heard in the car ten million times,” Sam shoots back, like he expected the question. (For someone operating on two blissed out brain cells, Dean is fairly impressed.)

 

He makes a show of sighing, a faint grin lingering around the corners of his eyes. “ _It’s a small world after all..._ ” He belts it, and Sam tackles him. Tackling is probably more of a generous statement, Sam’s version of tackling is more of a heavy slumping into his chest. Sam splays there after their unfairly matched tussle ends. “Something else, then?” Dean asks, endlessly amused. “Because the coconuts song is looking real good right now.”

 

“Sing me something you sing at work. Sandy is always talking about how you sing while you cook.” Sam sounds sleepy, and he snuggles into the crook of Dean’s side like he’s twelve again.

 

Dean purses his lips, rifling through the musical itinerary in his brain. He has thirty years of music stored away, and most of it isn’t new. He finally picks a song, nudging Sam to see if he’s awake. “You still with me, Sammy?”

 

Sam sits up, turning painfully to face him on the couch. “Uh huh.” His eyes are fever bright and Dean should probably be getting some water into him, he’s going to be in a world of pain tomorrow morning otherwise. “Come on Dean. Sing t’me.”

 

Licking his lips, Dean picks his song. It’s a dangerous one, considering. But Sam’s just drunk enough that he won’t get it, and even though it’s a chick song, Dean likes it.

 

It’s their lives with piano in the background.

 

“ _Something always brings me back to you,_ ” Dean starts softly, and Sam’s eyes are riveted to Dean. “ _It never takes too long. No matter what I should do, I still feel you here, until the moment I’ve gone..._ ” He’s none to sure about the lyrics but Sam doesn’t seem to care. Hazel eyes are wide, the pupils every so slightly dilated and Dean takes half a second to wonder if he should be considering the hospital. “ _You hold me without touch, you keep me without chains...I never wanted anything so much, than to drown in your love, and not feel your pain._ ”

 

He’s off tune and fucking up the lyrics but Sam is mouthing along, like he knows the song, like he wants to sing with him. “ _Set me free, leave me be, I don’t want to fall another moment into your gravity. Here I am, and I stand, so tall, just the way I’m supposed to be, but you’re on to me, and all over me..._ ”

 

He trails off, can’t remember the next verse, can’t even remember the fucking tune not with Sam looking at him like that and shit, he is so boned. “ _You loved me ‘cause I’m fragile_ ,” Sam murmurs, barely singing, barely on tune, looking down at their laps. “ _When I thought that I was strong, but you touched me for a little while, and all my fragile strength is gone._ ”

 

“Set me free,” Dean starts the chorus again when Sam stops singing, and he’s looking a little less drunk and a little more aware now. “ _Leave me be, I don’t wanna fall another moment into your gravity. Here I am, and I stand, so tall, just the way I’m supposed to be, but you’re on to me and all over me..._ ” He stops again; Sam pours them both another glass of wine, and downs his without waiting for Dean to even pick up the blue glass. “Sam,” he says, and the ‘ _you shouldn’t be drinking so much_ ’ and the ‘ _what are you doing?_ ’ and the ‘ _I love you_ ’ are all unsaid in the pause.

 

“Keep singing,” Sam says it roughly, no longer slurring but flushed and sweat has begun to dampen his hairline.

 

“ _I live here on my knees as I try and make you see that you’re, everything I think I need here on the ground, but yo_ _u’re neither friend nor foe, though I can’t seem to let you go, the one thing I still know is that you’re keeping me do_ –nngh!” Sam cuts him off with a kiss and suddenly that last glass of wine is making a lot more sense. Easier to blame it on three glasses of wine and vicodin in the morning.

  


Sam clearly isn’t expecting Dean to kiss back, but when he does Sam groans and opens his mouth for Dean. They kiss forever, or what feels like forever when Dean finally pulls away. “No,” he mutters, pressing his forehead hard into Sam’s. “No, not like this.”

“Dean, I’m...”

 

“Drunk,” he finishes for Sam even though he knows that Sam hates it when he finishes Sam’s sentences. “You’re drunk and you know it. I’m not...I can’t...sober up, and in the morning, we’ll talk.”

 

Sam sighs gustily, pressing a hasty kiss to Dean’s temple. “Years you hate talking. Now you wanna do it.” He stands shakily, reaching for his cane before Dean can hand it to him. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He limps his way over to the door to his bedroom, before turning to look at the silent and shell-shocked Dean. “Song got it right though, big brother. _Something always brings me back to you_.”

 

Dean can’t even think of words to say. Sam’s gone a second later, drunk and happy and _holygod_ they have to talk to tomorrow.

 

*

  
_It’s true the way I feel_   


  
_  
Was promised by your face   
_   


_  
_

_The sound of your voice_

 _  


Painted on my memories

  


Even if you’re not with me

  


I’m with you...

  


\- Linkin Park, “With You”

  
_ *

 

 

Sam’s still not up by the time Dean leaves for work, and he’d love to wait but if he’s late, Cruz will have his ass, so he leaves a hasty note for Sam and catches the bus to work. There’s one good thing about living in a college town that’s right next to a college town that’s right next to a college town. Free buses.

 

He makes it to the diner right on schedule and is greeted by Sandra who immediately knows something’s up. He waves off her questions and expertly fields any concerned looks she might be giving him.

 

Dean passes the day between cooking and singing, blaring the radio in his kitchen and ignoring anything but orders. The door swings open around noon and he turns around to tell Sandra for what will hopefully be the last fucking time that he’s fine and to please stop asking when he runs straight into Sam’s broad chest. “Sam,” he breathes.

 

He looks tired but his eyes are amused. “You could have woken me up before leaving, jerk.”

 

“Bitch, I was trying to make sure you got your beauty sleep.” He’s smiling as he says it but it’s tense and strained and he’s not going to handle it well if Sam tells him off in the middle of work.

 

Sam’s eyebrow quirks. “Did it work?” he asks archly. “Am I pretty today?”

 

“You’re always pretty, Sam,” Dean murmurs, and like that, they’re back on the couch from last night.

 

Biting his lip, Sam looks down at Dean, clearly warring with himself. “Dean...I...”

 

He cuts Sam off, doesn’t want to hear him say no. “It’s okay, Sam. I get it. You were drunk. No worries, right?” He gives Sam a smile he doesn’t mean and is surprised once again by Sam’s hands on his neck and jaw, turning his face to look at him. “Sam?”

 

“Do you know why I never said anything before?” Sam asks him, quiet, mindful of the goings on in the diner. “First it was because of Jess, but she knew. She told me two years ago before she finished packing that I should just make the move because you never would. I hadn’t really thought about it before then. She kind of surprised me.” He smiles, sheepish, and Dean finds himself taking another step forward into Sam’s space. “Then, for the last two years I wondered if she was right. Wasn’t ‘til yesterday that I really thought so.”

 

“Because of my conversation with Sandra D?” Dean asks carefully, because if the answer is no, it means he finally slipped up. Finally gave himself away.

 

“Mostly.” Sam grins, and pulls Dean up for a kiss. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to Dean, I’ve already made my choice.”

 

“Need to hear you say it, Sammy,” Dean murmurs against his brothers lips. “Before anything else I need to hear you say it.”

 

Sam presses a burning kiss to Dean’s lips. “I love you Dean. Want you. Take that as you will.” He kisses him again, dry, closed mouth. “I have to get to work, I’ll pick you up at nine.”

 

Like that, he’s gone, and Dean’s left wondering what will happen tonight. He’s already planning the dinner options.

  


*

  
_I am weak, you are strong_   


  
_  
And we need to belong together   
_   


_  
_

_  
Love never hurt it just tore us apart   
_

_  


  
And I will change, you will see   


  


  
I don’t care, I don’t like you anyway   


  


  
You’re duck, I’m a swan and   


  


  
We live across the pond   


  


  
-Lola Ray, “Duck Vs. Swans”   


  
_

 

*

 

The silence is tense in the car. “So,” Dean says brightly, faking it and winning, “what do you want for dinner?”

 

Sam’s lips lift a little in a small smile. “Something quick and easy, you’ve been cooking all day,” he says, turning to face Dean.

 

“So steak and potatoes then?” Dean shoots back with a grin, having already planned the meal in his head as he flipped pancakes.

 

Sam shoots him a sideways look. “There _is_ leftover lasagne y’know,” he says pointedly, “we could just heat that up and eat it.”

 

Dean flaps a hand in Sam’s general direction. “We could. Or I could cook steak and potatoes.”

 

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m going to complain.” He gives Dean another grin. He pan sears the steak and fries the potatoes because it’s Sam’s favorite way to eat them. Sam, for his part, balances on one hip as he puts together a salad, one hand on the counter and one throwing ingredients together. Way he’s standing, Dean can almost forget he needs a cane.

 

Sam doesn’t have a drop of wine at dinner. Dean pours him a glass but Sam doesn’t touch it, drinking water instead. One glass he probably could have had, but when Dean gives him a questioning look over the top of his own glass, Sam only says, “you wanted me sober.”

 

The air goes out of Dean’s lungs and for a second he feels like he’s suffocating before he remembers how to breathe again. “One wouldn’t kill you.”

 

“Kill me? No. But I don’t need courage, I need to be sober.” He smiles and takes another sip of water, challenging Dean over the rim.

 

Suddenly, food doesn’t seem quite as interested as it did a minute ago. Dean very carefully puts his knife down, and looks up at Sam. “I’m done,” he says slowly. “Are you?”

 

Sam nods. “I’ll clean up. Go shower or something.” He rises to his feet, unable to keep his eyes off Sam. His brother, fo his part, smiles widely, showing off his dimples. “See you in ten,” he says with a hint of a question.

 

“Yeah, Sammy. Be down in ten.” He disappears around the corner and Sam sits for a minute, composing his thoughts. Everything is changing, and he couldn’t wait to find out how. If Sandra was right, and she says she always is, Dean ‘has the hots’ for him. Her words, not his.

 

He washes up quickly, letting his body do the work while his mind turns over what he wants to say to Dean. He knows better than to just throw everything at him, too much information and Dean would shut down. Too little and Dean wouldn’t believe him. It had to be perfect.

 

Sam’s heart begins to race when he hears the water turn off upstairs.

 

Show time.

  
*

  
_I know that you think that I should still love you_   


  
  


  


  
  
_  
Or tell you that   
_   
  


  


_  
_

_  
  


  
  


But if I didn’t say it then I’d still have felt it

  
  


  
  
_

_  


  


  
  


  
  
  


Where’s the sense in that?

  


  
  


  
I promise I’m not trying to make your life harder   


  
  


  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  


  
  


Or return to where we were

  
  


  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  


  
  


But I will go down with this ship

  
  


  
  
  


  
  


  


  
  


  
  


  
  


I won’t put my hands up

  
  


  
  


  
  


  


  


  
  


  
  
  


  
  


And surrender.

  
  


  
  
  


  
  


  


  
  


  
  
  


  
  


\- Dido, “White Flag”

  
  


  
  
  


  
  


  


  
  
  


  
_   
_*_

 

 

Dean’s wearing a green shirt that brings out his eyes and jeans. Sam drinks him in for a long minute when his brother returns to the kitchen and Sam can’t help but stare. At an even thirty, Dean is still has handsome as ever. “Sam,” Dean murmurs, and breaks Sam’s concentration.

 

“No, Dean, it’s my turn.” Sam takes an aborted step forward before thinking better of it. “You said you had to know that I wanted...this...before we did anything? I’m sober tonight, just had some of my pain killers earlier before dinner, and I still want this. Still want you.” Dean’s face is frozen, half in a scowl, half in concern and Sam plows on. “Nothing I can say will convince you of this, so I’m just...going to say it. I love you, Dean. Jess knew. It’s why she left. She didn’t want to be second best anymore and I was tired of settling.”

 

“Sam,” Dean says softly, “Sammy c’mon, man. You loved Jess.”

 

“You’re not wrong,” Sam agrees. “But I always did love you more.” Dean’s lips part as though he’s about to speak but Sam beats him to the chase. He took several steps forward around the table, using the chairs to propel him along without his cane. Dean looks up when Sam gets close enough to touch and promptly forgets what he’s going to say. Sam’s eyes are bright, his pupils dilated. He licks his lower lip and then leans down to gently take Dean’s mouth under his. Dean freezes, he can’t help it, Sam’s mouth is so tender it almost brings tears to his eyes. Sam lets go of the chair he has a death grip on and slides his palms up Dean’s chest, dragging the pads of his fingers up from Dean’s collar to his neck to his jaw and behind his ears. Cradling Dean’s face with his hands, Sam tilts his own head to deepen the kiss.

 

Dean’s fingers find themselves in Sam’s belt loops, tugging his hips closer as he finally, _finally_ kisses back. Dean isn’t aware of how long they stand there, simply kissing, but eventually, feeling Sam’s very interested hardness pressed against his own, unmoving, he finally snaps.

 

Ever mindful of Sam’s damaged hip, he turns them sharply into the kitchen table and pushes Sam onto it, coming to stand in the wide vee of his legs. Their mouths separate with wet kissing sounds, and Dean is so unbearably turned on that he gasps and shudders when Sam wraps his good leg around Dean’s waist. “Fuck, Sam.”

 

Sam tears his mouth away from Dean’s and breathes deeply through his nose. “Still need convincing, Dean?”

 

“Fuck no,” Dean says, pressing his forehead against Sam. “God damn it, Sammy, how long have you known?”

 

Smiling, Sam presses a kiss to the corner of Dean’s lips. “I’m psychic,” he half-jokes, because sometimes it seems like it. Dean growls and claims Sam’s mouth again, biting at his lower lip until Sam whimpers. “No, no, I...Sandra told me.”

 

Jaw dropping, Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Sandra had finally given him away. “Sandra D. I owe her some flowers, or some shit,” he murmurs, and kisses Sam again.

 

Sam kisses like he’s dying, all pressure and heat behind him. He’s still taller than Dean, but makes up for it well with the cane, and since losing so much of his muscle mass, Dean feels less like the little brother. He scoots Sam back on the table, pressing their hips together as they kiss, wetly, desperately.

 

Their lips separate with a wet sucking noise and Dean presses his forehead into Sam’s temple. “Well,” he murmurs into Sam’s cheek. “Show me what you’ve got, stud.”

 

Sam makes a broken, bitten off noise at the words and it makes Dean wonder exactly how long Sam had been feeling this way. He pulls Dean closer into the vee of his legs, one hand on his hip, the other on his jaw. He pulls Dean around to kiss him gently, lingeringly. Sam trails kisses across Dean’s cheekbone, tender presses that make Dean’s heart race.

 

They both groan when Sam nips his ear, and Dean hips ground into Sam’s. “Off,” Sam requests quietly of his shirt, and Dean pulls it over his head.

 

“Sam,” he murmurs as his brother places loving kisses down his neck. “We should probably move to the bedroom.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says back. “Yours or mine?”

 

For a second, Dean had actually forgotten they slept in separate rooms. “Yours,” he says after a moment. “Mine has dirty laundry on the bed.”

 

Sam muffles a snort against the side of Dean’s neck. “You’re real sexy, Dean.”

 

With a grin and a shrug, Dean pulls Sam off the table. “Come on, stud.”

 

“You watch too many pornos, Dean,” Sam says a little painfully as Dean leads him down the hall.

 

“Pfft, I reject your reality and substitute my porn. Lay down.” Dean helps him though, keeps his weight off his hip, straddling his thighs, and not his lap. “Speaking of porn,” Dean says with a filthy little chuckle, “I changed my mind. It’s my turn.”

 

Sam gasps as Dean divests him of his jeans, pulling them carefully off. “Dean.”

 

“Shut up, Sam. Let me do this.” He carefully lifts Sam’s legs, pressing a hot kiss to the scar that wrapped around the bone of Sam’s hip curving dangerously down over his femoral artery. He avoids Sam’s erection, brushing the heavy appendage with his nose. He has another, more interesting goal in mind.

 

“Dean?” Sam whispers, breathless. He shifts his hips under his brothers hand. “Dean, what are you doing?”

 

Dean smiles against the inside of Sam’s thigh. “Trust me?” he implores and Sam nods jerkily before throwing his head back. Dean presses hot, open mouthed kisses, to the inside of Sam’s legs, lifting his erection out of the way to suck one ball into his mouth. After paying due attention to it, he switchs to the other, glossing his tongue between them. Sam whines low in his throat, widening his legs.

 

“Fuck, Dean...” he growls, burying one hand in Dean’s short spiky hair.

 

He tilts his head just so, grinning again Sam’s skin, and shifts Sam just enough to reach Sam’s small puckered hole. Sam shouts, digging his heels into the mattress to push against Dean’s face.

 

So Dean licks around the taut skin there, pressing his tongue against and into Sam, kissing messily. He spread Sam’s cheeks as best as he can, spearing his tongue in and out.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Dean, Dean, Dean!” Sam wails, arching against him, hands scrabbling at the quilt.

 

“Too much, Sammy?” Dean asks, gasping as he pulls away.

 

Glad of a reprieve Sam drops his head on his pillow. “Not enough, God Dean, just, just, justjust fuck me already!” Dean can’t move fast enough.

He’s off the bed and rooting for the jeans and the lube they held. “Can you turn over? Will that hurt you?”

 

Sam shakes his head, rolling carefully over and shoving three pillows under his hips. “Just go gentle.”

 

“I will.” Dean drizzled lube down the crack of Sam’s ass, slicking up two fingers. “Ready?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean slides his ring finger into Sam, crooking it in rough estimation and is rewarded when Sam shouts. Two fingers are easy but three is a stretch. “Fuck, Dean, just do it already!”

 

“You sure?” he rumbles, hands shaking.

 

“ _Yes!_ ” Sam deliberately spreads his legs, arching his spine to stick his ass practically in Dean’s hands.

 

“Christ!” Dean swears.

 

It takes him no time at all to slick himself up and press against Sam. “Yes, Dean, Deandeandean, please!” Sam chants and Dean slides home. “Yessss!”

 

“You okay Sammy?” Dean asks breathlessly, and Sam turns his head to glare at him. “Can I move? Please say yes.”

 

“Fuck yes, move, damnit,” Sam growls, humping back against Dean.

 

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for Dean to come, and Sam whines as Dean pulls out.

 

“Your turn now,” Dean purrs.

 

*

 

  
  
_S is for the simplicity_   
  


  
_  
E is for the ecstasy   
_   


_  
_

_  
X is just to mark the spot   
_

_  


  
'Cause that's the one you really want   


  


  
\- Nickelback, “S.E.X.”   


  
_

 

*

 

When Sam wakes up in the morning, he’s fully expecting to open his eyes, turn his head and see Dean sleeping beside him. Instead, te red over-large numbers on the clock greet him. 12:09PM.

 

Dean’s spot is empty and likely has been for quite some time, judging by the temperature of his side.

Also, he’s going to be late.

 

Sam hurries as best he can, but the limp impairs him and he’s fucking _hungry_. He could probably pick up something on the way - McDonalds or whatever - but a note on the front door brings him up short.

 

 _SAM. EAT SOMETHING. IDJIT. LOVE YOU - DEAN._ There’s a giant arrow pointing to the counter.

 

On the counter is one of their trays, covered in aluminum foil. Curious, still late, Sam reaches over and pulls the foil off the platter. He grins, dimples so deep they actually hurt. There’s a mess of dishes in the sink - so they’re homemade.

 

Dean made him muffins. He made muffins and they’re Sam’s favorite.

 

Dean made him muffins.

 

They’re blueberry.

 

*

  
_Rest with me_   


  
_  
_

  
_  
My lovely brother   
_   


_  
_

_  
For you see   
_

_  


  
There is no other   


  


  
Memory so sad and sweet   


  


  
I'll see you soon   


  


  
Save me a seat   


  


  
\- Red Hot Chili Peppers, “My Lovely Man”   


  


  
_

 

 __  
*End

 

  
  
**SONG LIST**   
  


 

  
Gravity - Sara Bareilles   


  


  
The Spell - Kamelot   


  


  
Tiny, Little - Tub Ring   


  


  
Within You - Linkin Park   


  


  
Ducks Vs. Swans - Lola Ray   


  


  
White Flag - Dido   


  


  
S.E.X. - Nickelback   


  


  
My Lovely Man - Red Hot Chili Peppers   


  


  
  
  



End file.
